The Curious Case of Miss Molly Hooper
by HiddlesbatchedSherlollian
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is back, and Molly poses an interesting case. Sherlolly proceeds, but beware, major character death :(
1. To Begin

Leaning her shoulder wearily against the wood of the door, searching frantically for the keys to her small flat, Molly sighed. She could hear Toby's mournful mewing, punctuated by periodic soft little thumps of his head against the wood. Finally retrieving her keys, she rammed the one to her flat into the key hole and thrust the door open, relieved to be home at last. The strain of keeping quiet about Sherlock being really quite alive was finally, after two years, getting too much. She hugged Toby close, allowing a few tears to fall, hoping that Tom was out and wouldn't catch her crying over Sherlock.

"Toby? Do you need feeding? You've been here, all alone all day. Or has Tom been home?" As she sniffled, he mewed, then fled as Tom entered the room. Tom leaned in for a kiss, surprising her.

"How was work today, sweetie? I hope there weren't too many dead people. Really, you should think about changing profession, especially since you had to autopsy your friend. Sheldon? Sherman? Ah whoever."

"Sherlock, Tom. His-his name is…was Sherlock." _And I'm in love with him,_ she thought.

"I'll go get you a cup of tea. Had a rough day, huh?" Tom left her side abruptly, his face taking on a sickly smile that made her insides churn uneasily. She'd noticed him becoming more protective recently, asking if she was alright, placing his hand on her whenever he could, and never letting her go places alone. She'd thought it cute, at first, but now… It had gotten to the stage where he wouldn't let her cook, or go out with her friends, even making herself tea was out of the question. Possessive was probably a better way to describe it, but she was certain he didn't _mean _to be so imposing.. He just worried about her.

"Sweetheart, we've run out of milk. Are you alright here for a little while alone? Just don't touch the kettle, it's still boiling." She nodded absently, caught up in her thoughts. Maybe he had a reason to worry. She_ was _clumsy, and was definitely losing a lot of weight. She had less energy, and as a result her autopsies were taking twice as long as usual. It had been happening for a while. Since Sherlock… Left. She was probably just worrying too much about him, missing him. Nothing to worry about.

Toby slunk back into the room, purring as he jumped onto her lap. She stoked him, glad for the comfort. Tom was lovely, really, he was, he just fussed about her, and tried to be everywhere at once, without giving her some time to be alone. He'd moved in within a week of them going out regularly. She got the distinct impression that Tom didn't like Toby, and that the feeling was more than mutual. Toby was particular as to who he liked, but the only person he had reacted to so strongly had been Jim, but Tom couldn't be like Jim. He couldn't. She'd know. This time, she'd know.

Still. Perhaps Toby's instincts were better than hers, after all. She didn't see Jim for what he was, and she did seem to have a preference for dark socio/psychopaths. She resolved to break up with him as soon as possible.


	2. Arm Deep

Turns out, she couldn't. Early the following Monday, Molly found herself stumbling, half blinded by the harsh neon lighting, into the morgue. She took a deep, steadying breath of the cool, sterile air, feeling it calm her nerves just by being in her element. Whilst she may be awkward and clumsy in the outside world, here, like a seal in water, she felt free to be her true self and as such she flourished.

Three bodies had come in overnight, what looked to be a drunken bar fight gone fatally wrong. She had no doubt that had Sherlock been there, he would requested several parts from them, as they seemed to all be in fairly good physical condition- discounting the numerous cuts, bruises, and fractures. Dissecting the first man's stomach was about as pleasant as being slapped in the face with a vomit soaked slightly rotten fish, as the sheer amount of alcohol he had imbibed had effectively preserved his last meal. God knows that if he hadn't died from blunt force trauma to the cranium several hours before –_head slammed into pavement several times, severe cranial hematoma and swelling in brain_- he would have found his way onto her table eventually.

Switching her blood covered gloves for another, clean pair, she took samples of his blood, any skin cells from under his fingernails, mouth swabs and estimated the time of death to have been roughly one AM. Moving onto the second corpse, she noted the lack of defensive and offensive wounds, suggesting he had not been involved in the bar fight at all. Alcohol had suffused his clothing, and a single stab wound in his back pointed to the cause of death. Slicing into the deceased's abdomen, she could see that the stab wound had punctured his lungs and just skimmed his heart, so at least his death had been relatively quick. Arm deep in the man, she observed the unusual slant of the wound, suggesting it had come from someone taller than him. A tall man, most likely. The wound itself had an unusual pattern,as though the blade was serrated on both sides. She felt a stab of sympathy for the poor guy. That would have hurt like hell. Continuing to dig around in his chest cavity, she found something… unusual in his stomach. And certainly unexpected; a tumour. She carefully catalogued it, and then set about removing it. She was certain there was more to this than met the eye, but she just couldn't _see _what the hell it was.

It was times like this that she missed Sherlock's influence the most. He could take one look at that body and just… Know what was wrong, why they had been murdered, how and by whom, and she would be left in his wake like a little boat caught in the slipstream of a cruise liner, or trapped in the eye of the storm, only able to watch, fascinated as he whirled around her, unable to escape. If she was honest, unable to _want _to escape. What made it worse was that she knew that he knew she felt like that, and took advantage of it, taking body parts, conducting experiments in her morgue, taking control of her life whenever it suited him.

Yet she loved him for it, even though she knew that he observed her as merely a means to an end, or at most "Someone who counts". He'd never reciprocate her feelings, and for years she had thought it would be enough, but now, now that she had begun feeling weak and, well, ill, she longed for someone who loved her to come home to, who genuinely cared for her. She wanted Sherlock to be that person, despite knowing that it would never be, despite being engaged to a kind, caring, slightly overbearing -at times- man. In all honesty, that was what had first drawn her to Tom. He looked like Sherlock, acted a bit like him sometimes, just without the horrid putting downs- _at first_- so she had thought she could be happy with him. But Toby didn't like him, so really, it was Toby or Tom. Toby would always win out. She looked down, not realising that she had already completed the last autopsy from last night. Her attention span was slipping; she'd suddenly come back to herself, not knowing what she had just done or how long she had been out of it.

"Molly Hooper, you have got to stop thinking about him. He is alive and well, and you should know better than to spend god knows how long moping over something that is not going to happen. Just be glad he needed you to follow through with his plan. You know he's alive." Ranting at herself was something she had started doing in her teens, when she was feeling particularly stressed and, for the most part, it worked. She moved away from the bodies, calling in her assistant to put the cadavers into their respective refrigerators. Rinsing down the examination tables, she wondered wistfully whether Sherlock would return to the soon. It was nearly two years to the day since he had come to her asking for help, with those glacial eyes that seemed to hold entire universes she'd never understand beseeching her; how could she have said no? She never said no.

Her pager beeped, announcing the imminent arrival of a new body. She sighed, pulled on a new pair of latex gloves, and headed up to meet it. It was going to be an exhausting day.


	3. Haunting Melody (AKA Not Dead)

The tedium of constantly returning to the same flat was far outweighed by the presence of mrs Hudson, the amenities nearby and the simple fact that he hated change. For all he was constantly searching for a new thrill, something to alleviate the crushing boredom everyday life brought, he liked having somewhere relatively warm to come home to. He always knew that Mrs Hudson would welcome him, and take care of his tea needs. The past two years, whilst being exciting and full of, well, adventure, had made him bored of living in a new place every few months; as such, he was greatly looking forwards to returning to the familiar setting of Baker Street. And he missed good English tea.

As the car pulled to a stop outside one of Mycroft's numerous safe houses, he broke the silence that had persisted the entire journey back from Serbia.

"John?"

"John seems to be fine, Sherlock. "

"Gary? Wait. No. Garth? Graham?"

"Detective inspector Lestrade is doing as well as expected. Although you might be interested to hear that Anderson is one of the few to believe that you are in fact alive."

Sherlock frowned, contemplating Anderson's sudden belief in him. Guilt, he surmised, was eating away at Anderson, forcing him to change his views regarding Sherlock. Pity. He always liked having a verbal spar with the idiot.

"Mrs Hudson? I presume you have kept tabs on her, and I would have known by now if something had happened to her."

"Brother dear, why don't you simply visit them? You can't hide from them forever, surely. You've become so... Sentimental of late."

Sherlock lapsed into silence. He considered asking after his pathologist, asking if she was happy knowing he was alive and if she had perhaps... Moved on. The thought left a bitter aftertaste, though quite _why_ he pushed far into the depths of his mind palace, to puzzle over later. Much later.

"Well Sherlock, this little sojourn has been just lovely, but now we have some serious matters to attend to. Such as the underground terrorist plot to blow up London. Though perhaps you should have a shave and a hair cut before then, you look positively wild!"

Leading the way through the labyrinth of corridors, Mycroft monotonously informed him of the particulars of the suspected attack, before thrusting him into a reclining chair. Whilst a barber set about making him look somewhat presentable, Sherlock's thoughts returned to Molly. Loathe to ask about her, yet burning with curiosity, he instead returned his focus to Mycroft.

"...wading in, you know how much i hate field work! Honestly you have no idea of the noise... The people!"

" 'Wading in'? You sat there and let me be beaten to a pulp!"

"Well I couldn't risk exposing myself! Besides. I got you out."

"No, I got me out. You were enjoying it."

"No." Mycroft's face slipped into the familiar icy mask he wore to hide his emotions.

"Definitely. Enjoying it." Sherlock returned to his position, allowing the barber to continue his ministrations. Whilst Mycroft had always been a bore, Sherlock had always managed to stay somewhat interested in what he said. However, currently, despite having no basic human contact in any positive way for two years, he would gladly commit murder to get rid of his incessant ramblings. Maybe he could. The only problem would be that he'd execute the perfect murder, so pointers would lead to him purely in so far that no one else would be a possible choice. However since most of the world thought he was dead,-

"Sherlock it is just possible that you won't be welcomed back." His brothers voice cut through his thoughts.

"No, it isn't." Sherlock knew John had missed him. After all, he had heard John beg him to not be dead, at his grave. He would be fulfilling his greatest wish! And Molly would be so happy to finally be able to tell everyone after two years... He shook the errant thought out if his head.

"Where is it?"

"Where is what?" Mycroft smiled snidely.

"...You know what." Anthea brought the coat to him, slipping it over his broadened shoulders, toned from so many months doing strenuous activities. "I will find your underground network, Mycroft. Thank you. Blud." With that, he left, winding his way through the myriad of corridors, before Mycroft's highly irritating voice echoed down.

"Oh Sherlock? Molly Hooper. She's engaged. Moved on. Do be nice to the poor girl, won't you? She's already had to lie to everyone she loves for two years. I'd hate to see you damage her even further." Molly. She meant more to him than anyone knew, quite _how much_ she mean being a fact that he kept hidden to even himself. Sentiment had always made him uneasy, not quite knowing how to react to other people in a way socially acceptable. Molly, however... Awkward, unsociable, kind Molly had always been nice to him. In fact, she fawned. It was sickening, really, how easy he could manipulate her, but he had... Missed her. Two years ago he would never have thought it, but he had found his thoughts returning to her more frequently, at times, than even John. He had spent evenings contemplating just how to make it up to her, both to apologise for his appalling treatment, and to thank her for helping him when he needed her the most. He'd have to find them a case.

Arriving back at Baker Street, he made his way silently up the stairs to his flat. Everything was as he had left it. Something dangerously close to gratitude for Mrs Hudson's foresight flickered within him. Putting it down to relief at being home at last, all but one loose end of Moriarty's network tied up, he smiled. His violin laid in the same place as it always had, the ridiculous ear hat on the back of his chair and the telly in the corner.

He ran his hand reverently over the smooth surface of his bow, having had missed the exquisite euphoria and sense of peace he could only ever achieve whilst composing. He experimentally touched the bow to the strings, as lightly as a feather. A horrifying wailing erupted from the instrument; such was to be expected after two years of neglect.

He shuddered to think what else had suffered in the two years of his absence. John's moustache, for example. He hadn't expected such a marked change in his friend. The moustache would have to go.

Having absently tuned the instrument lying dormant in his hands, he once again raised the violin to his shoulder and began to play, a haunting, yet angry staccato that echoed throughout the building and struck chords deep within the hidden depths of his soul. The music rose and fell around him, creating waves of sound that wrapped itself around him, cocooning him in a bubble of peaceful calm despite the erratic tempo and harsh notes.

His thoughts returned to Molly, drawing her image from deep within his mind palace, her small pale face, her long brown hair so constrained within the confines of a black rubber hair band, the way his name fell from her lips on a soft exhale - making it sound exotic yet oddly sensuous. His playing had become smooth and graceful, lonely yet soothing, a beautiful melody drawn from repressed sentiment.

He was interrupted by a scream. Mrs Hudson's. He dropped the violin abruptly, striding forcefully over to where she stood.

"Sherlock! You're dead! No!"

"Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson! Clearly, I am not dead. I apologise for lying to you for so long. It was, I assure you, completely necessary..." She cut him off by smacking him forcefully on the chest, before grasping him firmly in a hug. Tears cascaded down her face.

"Oh Sherlock, you have no idea... We've all missed you so much, and John, he has only been to see me _once _the cheeky sod, and oh doesn't he look so _old _with that ghastly moustache? And poor Molly has been working herself to the bone, poor lamb, though she does have a nice fiancée, lovely young man, so softly spoken and well mannered..."

"Mrs Hudson, if you wouldn't mind..." He carefully extricated himself from the confines of her arms, kissing her lightly on the cheek. "i have to go and let John know that I'm.. not dead..."

"Oh! Of course! You must let him know. He's missed you so much. And Sherlock...!"

Already out of the door, he completely missed her telling him of John's soon to be fiancée.

* * *

Thanks for reading guys! Sorry it's so short :/


	4. Thick Trail of Sticky Blood

Collapsing onto her bed three weeks later, Molly thought about seeing Sherlock again. It had been both infinitely better, and excessively worse than she had been expecting. The rush of emotions, expected. The longing, expected. What she hadn't expected was for him to look so _tired, _or her need to take him in her arms and just… look after him.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, swiftly, trying to get some warmth into them. The ring on her finger glinted in the dim light of her lamp, throwing shining fragments of light against the walls. Thankfully, Tom was away for three weeks, so she could tidy the place up her way, and not have to worry about him fussing over her. Sherlock had noticed the ring, of course. No doubt Mycroft had told him, sly fox that he was. Changing into a pair of worn fleece pyjamas, she curled up on the sofa to watch a rerun of Doctor Who, grabbing a bag of crisps to eat. As the opening credits ran, she recognised Sally Sparrow and shuddered. Blink was an amazing episode, but god did those Angels give her the creeps!

An hour, two packets of crisps and a spilled drink later, Molly stared nervously around her flat. _It's just fiction, stupid. They aren't going to get you. _

A tap at her door elicited a squeak from her, then a mental shake. For christ's sake, she worked in a morgue! Steeling her nerves, she crept down the small hallway, wincing when she hit a creaky floorboard.

Cautiously, slowly, she opened the door a crack, barely able to catch a glimpse of long dark coat, blue scarf and impossibly sharp cheekbones before Sherlock forced the door open and was in her flat.

"Uh, what..What are you doing here? Sherlock, it's ten o'clock at night! I have to go to work in the morning, and…" She trailed off. Dried blood clung to his lips, presumably from his nose, which still had a thick trail of sticky blood oozing from it.

"I take it John wasn't overly happy to see you then? Oh, sit down, I'll fix your nose and lip for you…"

She hurried off to the kitchen, looking for her med kit, dropping several pans in her frantic search. It wasn't so much that he needed immediate attention, more.. she worries about what mischief he would get up to left unattended. Med kit in hand, she turned suddenly, slamming into the hard wall of his chest.

"I told you to sit down." Her thudding heart wouldn't slow back down, she was certain that if she made eye contact he would see her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks, so stared fixedly at the muscled column of his throat. He felt so muscular, completely unlike he had when he had lain on her table, allowing her to take him measurements. Then, he had been soft, almost... Delicate. The last two years had certainly been kind to his physique, if not to the rest of him.

His hands, which had impulsively reached out to stabilise her, rested just in the hollow of her back, as light as a butterfly. He studied her face, the way her really rather vile pyjamas hung from her slight frame, and her hair hung limply around her face. Faint lines circled her eyes, smudged concealer failing to do its job of hiding the deep purple hollows surrounding them, whilst her entire face was pallid. Something was very wrong with Molly.

* * *

Thank you for being so lovely! (sorry this chapter is so very short, the next couple are much longer. Promise!)


	5. Experimental Sleeping Arrangements

Wow guys! Thank you for being so lovely towards this! No, Tom is not back on the scene yet, but he'll be making a big comeback soon enough ;) Enjoy the fluff!

Molly awoke encompassed within the warm cocoon of Sherlock's arms, very confused and extremely happy. Struggling to get out of his grip, she found herself becoming increasingly tired, within a short time. Exhausted, she settled back against his chest, trying to understand the events of the night before. Sharing a bed with Sherlock had been the most bewildering experience of her life, including the whole Jim debacle. Expecting him to take the bed, she had tried to make herself a little nest on her worn sofa, shifting and fidgeting for what felt like hours, until Sherlock's deep baritone interrupted her.

"Molly, just get into bed with me. Your constant movement will just irritate me all night long and no doubt tomorrow you will be stiff and sore, completely unable to move without pain. I need you tomorrow, so come over here." She had stilled, not quite believing what she had heard.

"Please, Molly?" Slowly easing her way off the sofa, through the dark flat and into her bedroom, she had lingered in the doorway for a moment, each looking at the other in companionable silence. Sherlock had gestured towards the far side of the bed; the side she usually slept on.

"How did you know..? Actually, never mind. You're Sherlock Holmes. You always know..."

Sherlock sighed.

"His side of the bed is made up more neatly than yours, suggesting it hasn't been slept in, and traces of your perfume linger on the messy side. Simple, really.."

Slipping into the bed beside him, she turned her back, keeping as far away as possible… for his sake. She hadn't expected his arms to encircle her, pulling her flush against him. She'd squeaked, completely involuntarily, tensing all over. He had to have known the effect he had on her. "... Relax, Molly. Go to sleep. You look like you need it.." His voice had trailed off, soothing her, making her melt back against his chest. She had fallen asleep wrapped safely in his arms, feeling safer and more at peace than she had for most of her adult life.

Work the next day was an... Interesting experience. Six bodies had come in, twice her usual workload, two of whom would have died within six months regardless. Cancer. Surprisingly, other than the tumours and the signs of severe weight loss, their bodies showed no outward signs of being ill. At all.

Adding their cases to the three that had come in before Sherlock had come back, five victims had died of unnatural causes, all suffering from an extremely rare species of stomach cancer. It frustrated her, not knowing how they all had the same strain of cancer, despite having no connection to one another, no similar eating or drinking habits, nothing at all to direct her to the cause. One smoked, two had tried recreational drugs, four of them were under 35 and the other was eighty five years old.

She texted Sherlock, since if she couldn't get it, he almost certainly could.

"I mean, it could be a coincidence, but... "

"The universe is rarely so lazy, Molly." Within minutes of sending the text, he was at her side, two coffees in hand and a spring in his step.

"Oh! Sherlock. Yes, um, they're in there. All five, I thought you'd maybe want to.. Look at them." Dammit, it had been wonderful waking up in his arms but now she was a bumbling idiot, tripping over her words and blushing more than ever. She had basically cheated on Tom. And willingly!

"Molly. Stop worrying, it's irritating. Your thoughts show so plainly on your face, it's no wonder .. uh.. Tom? Tom. Is still there. He doesn't need to ask what you think, does he?" Holding open the door for her, he waited until she was in the coldest room in the morgue before beginning to examine the bodies. A thrill of excitement ran down his spine, knowing that there was a mystery to be solved in the room.

She had done excellent autopsies on them, he begrudgingly conceded, as she prattled on about what she found, and waited for her to finish. After... Whatever happened last night, he felt tense around her, and didn't want to say the wrong thing. She had felt so fragile pressed against him, as though a simple breath of wind would shatter her into a thousand pieces, and carry her away from him and everyone who loved her. Though he'd known the thought was illogical, it had pestered him all night and long into the morning. Even now, he was conscious of her every move, searching her face for signs of just what was wrong. She looked far better rested than she had when he visited her before, yet the circles around her eyes and the gauntness of her cheeks suggested that it hasn't been enough.

"Molly, I'd like to conduct an experiment. You, are exhausted. I cannot return to my flat, as it is currently being... Remodelled. Last night, you slept better than I would guess you have for months, judging by your weight loss, disrupted sleeping patterns and the shadows under your eyes. Fucking hell, Molly, you're a walking skeleton!Uh so, yes. I propose that for the next few weeks, I sleep with you, at yours. I shall move some of my stuff this evening."

Molly froze, gaping at him. _What the __**hell?!**_

"T-Tom is going to be back soon. He, uh, he's only gone for a few days. He said a week at most. So we can't. I mean you uh we...Oh" Sherlock smiled, hoping to weaken her defenses.

"I'll get Mycroft to change his plans for me. This is important, Molly. For both of us. Please? Let me help you?" Using all of his powers of manipulation and persuasion, he watched indecision and guilt war on her face.

"How long? For, I mean. How long would it be for?" She had her lip caught between her teeth, distracting him momentarily.

"I-Uhm." He cleared his throat, trying again. "I though perhaps a trial period of two weeks, and if it works, you could stay with me thrice a week after. I'm _sure_ Tom won't mind. If he does we can persuade him, or Mycroft can."

"Definitely just two weeks? Starting tonight?" Again with the nibbling on her lip. He would have to get her to stop soon.

"How about if we start counting from the start of the new week? The rest of this week you could sleep alone, if that's what you would prefer..." Silence met his _offer_. Watching her from beneath his lashes, he bent over the nearest corpse, taking periodic sniffs. Unfortunately, being in such a sterile environment had removed all but the barest traces of any lingering foreign scents, a small part of his mind noticed.

" I don't mind if you want to stay tonight. I mean I can take the sofa, try not to move too much this time..." Satisfied with her answer, he nodded, moving to examine the next body. Five dead, all cancer sufferers, not killed by their cancer but conveniently before any serious symptoms could emerge. It was puzzling, but he was determined to find the answer.


	6. A Few Flecks Of Blood

So another new chapter! Yay! Some light fluffy adorableness in store, as well as... some not so happy stuff. Don't worry, it'll get worse.

* * *

Slipping into a pattern with Sherlock had been remarkably easy, far easier than with Tom. But then, with Sherlock, she didn't have to worry about sex. The first night, she had tried to take the sofa once again, whilst Sherlock thought in her bed. She'd just drifted off when she had felt a pair of strong, muscular arms lifting her, as if she weighed no more than a feather- which if she was completely honest with herself, was probably accurate- before settling her ever so gently on the bed. Once again turning around, she had wriggled backwards slowly, until she felt the warmth from his body through the thin material of her pyjamas. Like before, Sherlock's arms had encased her, warming her small body and making her feel safe and protected.

The second night, she hadn't bothered trying to go to the sofa, knowing that he would just -figuratively- drag her to bed. Instead, she had turned down his side in preparation, slipped under the covers and waited. And waited. Finally, he had crept into the room, collapsed on to the bed fully clothed and started mumbling to himself.

It was then she had realised that she didn't quite know what he slept in. Obviously, she couldn't have left him in his shirt and trousers, but the thought of running her hands over his bare chest sent shivers all over her, which she certainly never got for Tom. But the thought of doing it whilst he was asleep, completely at her mercy, revolted her. However, she had to remove at least some of his clothes, and maybe find some of Tom's pyjamas to put on him. She had just removed his shoes, socks and shirt and was ghosting her hands over his abdomen when his hands wrapped around her fragile wrists, halting their progression to his belt.

"Molly... What are you doing?" His voice had been gruff, _from sleep, idiot_ and his hands had seemed almost to be trembling. Realising she had been knelt before him, she rose quickly, blushing.

"You uh you fell asleep, and you didn't look comfortable. I'm sorry.." It was almost funny, how even sat on her bed he was taller than her standing up. His lips were tantalisingly close; it would have taken just a small movement from both of them for their lips to touch.

"Thank you Molly, I... Appreciate it. Shall we?" He had gestured to the bed, a half smile on his face. Face flaming red, she had hurried around to her side of the bed, thankful for the darkness. Climbing in beside him, she had instinctively sought his now familiar warmth, she had sighed happily, not caring about the fact that she was far happier in this man's arms than her fiancée's.

Their fifth night together was passing peacefully, until she woke in the night with agonising stomach contractions. Almost screaming from the pain, she struggled to the small bathroom, retching and sobbing intermittently. Finally reaching the toilet, she violently threw up the remnants of what little she had eaten in the day. Cool hands smoothed her hair back from her face, murmuring sleepily to her whilst she struggled to keep from screaming.

"What is it Molly? What's wrong?" She could hardly breathe for the pain, much less talk through it. She choked out a sob, desperately reaching blindly for the support of his arms.

"Do you need to go to hospital? Fuck. I don't know what to do. What should I do?!" She'd never heard him sound so very concerned for another human being, except of course John. After half an hour, the crippling pain slowly receded, leaving her weak and dizzy, clinging to Sherlock like a drowning man.

"C-can we please just go back t-to bed? P-p-please?"

"I think we should see a doctor or something, there is clearly something extremely wrong with you. If we go now I'm sure we can get you checked out soon. Please." Molly drew a deep, shuddering breath.

"Sherlock. Right now... I'm really not.. Ready.. To move ... anywhere... Other than.. Back... To my ... Bed... So please, carry me... Or I ... S-swear... I will.. Crawl.. If I .. Have ...to! W-we c-can see... John... Tomorrow.."

Sighing, he lifted her gently into his arms, and carried her slowly back to their - her - bedroom, placing her lightly back on the bed. Going back through to her bathroom, he noticed a few flecks of blood speckling the rim of the toilet. He scrunched his nose up, thinking. He ruled out food poisoning instantly, since she had only eaten soup all day. Poison was unlikely, seeing as no one had keys to her flat other than Molly and Tom. Tom was out of town so unless he had poisoned her food in preparation...

Straightening, he made his way to her side. Curled in a foetal ball, shivering under the thick duvet and paler than he had ever seen her, she looked so young and fragile that he just wanted to take her in his arms, take her somewhere safe. Somewhere only they knew.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips softly against her forehead. "I will find out what is happening to you. I'll save you. John Watson isn't the only one who can save a life," he whispered into her hair.

* * *

Rummaging through her cupboards, Sherlock could find nothing obviously corruptible. Having left her sleeping, fitfully, he had made straight to her small kitchen. -_Why must everything be so small? _Searching as noiselessly as possible, he sniffed, prodded and took samples of everything he thought might have been compromised. He could easily enough get more if he found nothing.

Slipping the numerous samples into the inner pockets of his coat, he eased back into bed beside Molly, who turned in his arms to face him. On impulse, he lifted his hand to brush his fingers across her cheek, stilling when her eyelids fluttered. He murmured softly to her, hoping to avoid waking her after the episode earlier.

"... Sherlock... No... Stay..." Her small fingers gripped his biceps, cutting into the soft skin there.

"Shhhh, I'm staying here. Don't worry..."

"M-Moriarty. N-n-no!" She thrashed against him, struggling to get away.

"Molly? Molly, it's me, it's Sherlock. Wake up. Just.. Wake up. For me."

Her eyes flew open, wide and unseeing. A blood curdling scream echoed through the flat, setting his teeth on edge and making his heart constrict painfully. Her screams died down into great racking sobs, her entire body convulsing with the force of them. He curled his body around her, restricting her movement so she couldn't hurt herself.

Gradually, her breathing slowed, sobs subsiding to occasional sniffles and hiccoughs. He tilted her face up towards his, searching her face for signs of further distress. Scared dark brown eyes met his, mere inches from his own. Her breath came in soft light puffs, fanning across his face, forcing his eyes to trail down her face - lingering on her lips. Her pink tongue darted out, wetting them slightly. Almost imperceptibly, he moved closer, touching his lips delicately to hers. She sighed against his lips, touching her tongue to his lips, treading her fingers through his thick curls to hold him to her. He held her close, arms and legs wrapped around her, moulding her to him.

"Sherlock..." She moaned into his mouth as he opened it, allowing her tongue to explore every crevice.

"Oh... Fuck, Molly..." Rolling slightly, he pinned her beneath his large body, not fully understanding the sensations she was managing to evoke and the reactions they spurred.

Pulling back slightly, he observed the emotions chase each other across her face, guilt, confusion and... lust? Of course he knew she desired him, but to see it so clearly shown in the flush across her cheeks, the severe dilation of her pupils, her erratic breathing... It was just very different _seeing_ the _evidence _ in person.

"I... I'm sorry. You just.. You were crying, I didn't know what to do.." He slowly eased back to his side of the bed, pulling her back to his side as he turned.

"It's alright. I'm sorry you had to see that." She refused to meet his eyes, fiddling with her hair. He pulled her hands away, kissing her on the forehead before closing his eyes.

"Good night, Molly. Try and get some sleep. You really do need it."

"...Goodnight, Sherlock."

He kissed the top of her head as she surrendered to exhaustion once again.

* * *

Just letting you all know that Tom genuinely will be back. I estimate him making quite an entrance on *around* their ninth night together ;)


	7. Promise Me, Molly

Hey! Had a ridiculously busy day yesterday so couldn't update.. I'm sorry! On with the show then.

* * *

Sherlock shifted uneasily, attempting to keep a cold mask of derision in place under his brother's scrutiny.

"So let me get this quite straight. You want me to not only keep Thomas out of miss Hooper's flat for another week, but you want me to waste valuable government resources to analyse some food stuffs that may or may not be poisoned? Why the _hell _do you think I would do that Sherlock? It's not as though the Hooper girl means anything to me."

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose, fighting the urge to punch his oh so clever brother.

"Molly is ill. Last night she was screaming in agony, vomiting blood and had a vivid hallucination regarding Jim Moriarty. Those symptoms suggest poisoning. The only people with direct access to her flat are her, Tom and.. Myself. Despite what you might believe, I do not routinely poison the people I am close to Mycroft!"

"And why can't you get her to analyse-"

"Because she doesn't understand that she has been poisoned! She think it's just a stomach bug, that's she is ill. BUT SHE ISN'T, MYCROFT. I need to find out what is wrong with her and how to stop its progression. I don't want to have to beg you." His voice caught slightly as he raised his voice, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by his brother.

Mycroft observed him over the tips of his steepled fingers; taking note of the subtle changes sleeping with Miss Hooper had created. Almost gone were the shadows of doubt that had plagued his brothers eyes for years, his cheeks looked less hollow and he seemed a little more at ease with himself. Of course, he seemed restless and bored, hence, he presumed, the interest in the Hooper mystery. The thought that Sherlock might actually be interested in a.. _Woman_.. Made Mycroft vaguely uncomfortable. He'd always assumed the Holmes line would die out, since he would certainly never sire an heir and Sherlock; whilst being moderately more normal, still was unlikely to find a woman who would be able to put up with him. Even if a woman existed able to, he was entirely unlikely to see her in a romantic way.

"So? Are you going to help me, brother dear? If you aren't then I will just have to call in a few favours. Just imagine how the press will think of that, brotherly love really doesn't run thick in our family..."

"Fine. I will have your precious samples analysed. I assume that if we don't find anything you're going to get me more?"

Sherlock ignored the slight jibe.

"Make sure you run tests for every know poison, carcinogenic, drug and bacteria. There has to be something. I know there is something..."

"You know a thank you would be nice. 'Manners cost nothing, Sherlock'"

Sherlock smiled slightly, rolling his eyes at Mycroft's - highly accurate - impression of their mother. "Yes, well, thank you. I'll.. See myself out."

"Sherlock, what exactly is the nature of your relationship with Molly? You two seem awfully chummy recently, spending nights together, and now you're worrying about her health... I can't help but wonder when we can expect the announcement!"

Sherlock strode out, as Mycroft's laughter echoed down the corridor. Truthfully, he hadn't exactly thought about what Molly was to him. Useful, yes. She always provided him with bodies and a relatively quiet lab to conduct his more volatile experiments in. She was kind, putting up with his admittedly terrible treatment of her. Thinking back over the years, he felt a slight pang of.. Guilt? He was entirely unused to allowing himself to feel any type of sentiment that the feeling made him uneasy.

Making his way back to Baker Street, he vaguely noticed that his feet were so accustomed to turning left down Bond street towards Molly's that calling a cab felt almost foreign. Finally arriving at his flat, he was pleased to see that it was almost back to normal. His last case had -literally- erupted around him due to a cleverly concealed bomb that had exploded in the kitchen. He'd lost all of his experiments, which was unfortunate; though he doubted Mrs Hudson would see it that way. Luckily, his violin had survived, so he planned to bring it to Molly's with him later.

Satisfied that his flat was being put back together the he was used to, he stopped in to see Mrs Hudson on his way out.

"Sherlock, where are you staying? Is that brother of yours treating you right? I do hope he's put you up in a nice hotel or something. Your rooms will be ready by this time next week, I'd imagine. Are there any changes you want us to make?"

"No, I think…" He hesitated, considering a solution to the problem of just where Molly would sleep when Tom got home and Sherlock couldn't stay with her any more.

"Actually, yes. I'd like a new bed. A double. Mine is a bit small. Old. Creaky. I- I just want a new one. See to it, will you?" Pressing a kiss to her soft, wrinkled cheek, he replaced his scarf and coat, ruffled his hair and left.

* * *

The rest of the day passed excruciatingly slowly, waiting as he was for the results of the tests. He had briefly considered stopping by Molly's to surprise her, maybe get lunch… and possibly convince her to let him see what other bodies were in… when his phone finally vibrated.

_It's happened again. Please come. Molly x_

Sherlock stood staring at his phone, not quite understanding. By all accounts, any and all poisons should have been out of her system by now, unless she had been exposed to them anew. That left him with the possibility of it being either a gradual poisoning, over months or years – _suggesting someone patient, that hated her and more than likely within close proximity a lot of the time_ – or a bacterial infection –_in the sense of someone infected her_- , resulting in repeated attacks of nausea resulting in blood.

Running for a taxi, he ran all the possible suspects and causes of her _illness_ through his mind, continually being brought back to Tom. He was baffled by the cause; no poison he knew of caused the symptoms she was displaying. All the evidence he could see pointed towards… Cancer.

As far as he knew, it was impossible to cause cancer directly. Short of injecting extremely concentrated amounts of carcinogens directly into the blood stream repeatedly on a regular basis for a series of months, or years-

Five dead bodies rose to the forefront of his mind palace. Five dead bodies of varying weights, age and physical condition. All with stomach cancer. Killed before any discernible symptoms appeared. He filed the knowledge away, not quite certain he had found a connection between Molly and the five cadavers lying unclaimed in the morgue. It seemed too- outlandish, really. Who would go to all the trouble to cause such a vicious strain of cancer, over months, years most likely in the case of some, just to murder them before the cancer killed them? By all accounts it was ingenious. Who would link someone dying of stomach cancer to murder?

Finally arriving at her apartment building, he rushed up the stairs, bursting through her front door. He found her just inside the bathroom curled pitifully in a foetal ball, shuddering with every gasped breath. Kneeling beside her, he wrapped his long arms around her vulnerable frame.

"I'm sorry Molly, I should have been here, I shouldn't have taken _so long_. I shouldn't have left you alone..." He took a deep, steadying breath to calm himself.

"W-we should go.. to John. L-like you s-s-said last night. Oh, god!" She wrenched away from him, elbowing him in the jaw in her haste to reach the toilet before violently heaving again. The sickening sound of blood dripping from her open mouth into the water beneath her echoed around the small bathroom. Tenderly brushing her hair away from her face, he held onto her shaking shoulders as she continued to wretch, murmuring quiet encouragement with every laboured breath.

Taking out his phone, he called John.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John's tinny voice rang loud with concern.

"Can you come here? Please? It's Molly, she's sick, poisoned, I don't know but please come I think.. I don't know what to think. Please help me. John, I don't know what to do!" He tightened his one armed grip on Molly, as she slumped brokenly against him.

"Woah, Sherlock, slow down. Where are you?"

"Molly's flat. You know where that is. Just - Hurry." He threw the phone, not caring where it fell. Scooping her up, he stood, looking for a blanket to wrap around her. She seemed to have shrunk, appearing as small and delicate as a child. To see her so... Defeated, made him unreasonably angry. He moved her to the bed, removing all their clothes in the process. Modesty be damned; the quickest and most reliable way to warm her would be for them both to be in the bed, skin on skin. He wrapped the duvet around them, rubbing his hands all over her, trying to create some friction between his hands and her skin. Her head lolled against his chest, breath coming in short, erratic gasps.

"Sherlock?!" Johns voice reverberated up the hallway. Relief surged through his body.

"In here!" Desperation tinged his voice, as her breathing had seemed to stop upon John's arrival.

"John, please! She's - She's not breathing." Opening her mouth, he breathed deeply into it, trying to stimulate her natural impulses. Tense minutes passed this way, John checking her vital signs, Sherlock determinedly forcing air into her lungs. Finally, after two minutes that felt like hours, she choked in a wavering breath.

Hugging her to him closely, he fervently whispered into her hair.

"Don't you.. **_Ever_ ** do that to me again. Promise me, Molly Hooper."

Beautiful dark eyes met brilliant ever changing blue.

"I promise."

* * *

And over for another day. What's wrong with her? Or rather, just how serious is it? Feel free to message me about any grammatical errors, I have to beta it myself :L


	8. The Inexperienced, Shy Man

Smut warning in this one, friends. I do think it's a bit overdue ;)

* * *

Molly spent the next three weeks in hospital. Being connected to an IV drip had its uses, she supposed. She'd put on a bit of weight. However, it was damnably annoying, plugged into her at all hours of the day. She couldn't remember much of those weeks, though. She'd had a lot of blood taken for tests, and the pain in her abdomen had been so severe that she had been put on a morphine tap, until it had finally subdued itself.

Sherlock had hardly left her side; that much she knew. Every night she would awaken to the feel of his warm lean body pressed protectively against hers.

She'd been for scan after scan, test after test, Sherlock by her side whenever he was allowed – and more often than not, when he wasn't – and yet they could not work out what it was. Or if they did, they didn't tell her.

During her second week in, Tom paid her a visit. Thankfully, Sherlock had been kicked out by the nurses to go home and get some sleep. They all assumed, due to the ring on her finger and his constant vigil, that they were... _Together_. Tom had fussed over her, making her irrationally angry. He hadn't stayed long.

On a couple of mornings, she had woken up to Sherlock watching her, a strange expression on his face; half peace and half… worry. He looked at her as though she was the most precious, breakable thing in the world, and like she was the most difficult puzzle he had ever encountered. Until he noticed her looking that is. Then the shutters would come down behind his eyes, and he would return to the normal, snarky Sherlock she knew and loved.

At long last, she had recovered enough to be allowed home. Leaning heavily on Sherlock's arm, supported on the other side by Mary -soon to be- Watson, she pushed the key to her flat into the key hole. Staggering into the main body of her flat, the cloying smell of blood remained, hovering thickly over everything like a grotesque spectre.

Toby's food bowl was full, she noticed absently, the water dish nearly empty. She hoped absently that one of the neighbours had looked after him whilst she'd been away. She hadn't seen him in, well, about a month, she supposed.

"Maybe.. Maybe we shouldn't have you here for a while." Mary looked around the flat nervously, wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant smell.

Glancing up, Molly noticed a box, beautifully wrapped and about the size of a large shoebox. As she made her way painfully slowly towards it, the unpleasant smell seemed to intensify.

"Molly, I don't think you should open that."

"Why? It's probably just a cake someone left when I first went in to hospital."

"I agree with Sherlock, anything could be in that box. A bomb." Sherlock glanced at Mary speculatively.

"Just let me open the damned box!" Wrenching away from them, she lifted the lid.

"**TOBY!" **She screamed piercingly, collapsing back into Sherlock's supportive arms.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Mary ran to the toilet, the sound of regurgitation reaching them.

Sherlock looked into the box dispassionately, taking in the rotting remains of Molly's beloved cat. It looked as though he'd been carved, his head on a cushion separate from his body, intestines in a little food bag and his heart by his paws. He hoped it wasn't a warning of something to come.

* * *

Back in Baker Street, he made Molly lie down in his bed, since she was still crying. He understood, somewhat, what she was feeling. He would have been murderous had some psychopath butchered his Redbeard. He'd been damnably close when Mother and Father had decided to put him down. Making a pot of tea, he called to Mrs Hudson for biscuits, and support. He was useless at giving sympathy.

"Sherlock, dear, I've got bourbons, and custard creams and digestives. Is that oka- What is that noise, Sherlock? You had better not be conducting some God awful experiment on a living thing!" She made her way furiously to his bedroom, freezing at the sight of the small woman sobbing in his bed.

"Sherlock Scott Holmes, you had better have a bloody good explanation for this!" She rounded on him ferociously. He'd never seen her so interesting.

"You know Molly. She's upset, her cat... We found her cat. Dead, in a box. I wanted you to see if you could comfort her, you know how i am with these things." He gave a rueful, self deprecating smile, as her anger visibly leaked away.

"Sherlock, I doubt she wants me in there! She barely know me. Get in there and be nice to her." She placed the biscuits on the coffee table and pushed him down the hall to his room.

"I'll be downstairs when you need me." With that, she firmly shut the door to the flat.

Running his hands through his dishevelled hair, he sighed, entering his room. Her red rimmed eyes met his above the dark blue duvet, her hair messily framing her face. He thought she looked beautiful.

Cautiously sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled her up and on to his lap, still snuggled in the blanket. He rested his chin lightly on the top of her head.

"I'm sorry you had to see that. I should have checked the flat before I took you home, I just didn't _think _properly." He paused. "What are you doing to me, Molly?"

She shifted slightly in his arms, tucking her head more firmly under his chin.

"I. Uh, I understand what you're going through. Not- not exactly, but something like what you're feeling. Not many people know this, but I had a dog, once. I grew up with him. I loved that dog. He.. He would listen, kind of - He'd tilt his head just slightly when I would talk. He was always there, the one thing in my life that was _always_ happy to see me. And then one day, I got back from school and Mother came up to me.. I remember she h-had tears in her eyes. Th- They'd h-had to pu-put him d-down." He paused, swallowing down forcefully the lump that had formed in his throat.

"He wasn't even that old. They never told me why they put him down, and I have _never _forgiven them for it. It was about then that I decided that Mycroft was right. Caring isn't an advantage." He buried his head in her hair, breathing deeply as he tried to regain his lost composure.

Molly Looked up at him, turning in his arms to face him fully.

"Thank you for sharing that." Capturing his face between her hands, she leaned in towards him, lightly pressing her lips to his before pulling away, searching his eyes. His hands, which had been limply lying on the bed beside him, clasped her waist tightly to him as he crashed his lips back on to hers.

She sighed into his mouth as he lightly traced the outline of her lips with his tongue. Opening her mouth slightly, she forcefully took control of the kiss, fisting her hands into his hair and wrapping her legs around his waist.

* * *

*Smut warning for any who doesn't want to read it. Though why you'd be reading an M rated if you don't want smut is beyond me.*

* * *

His hands trailed sparks down her back and up again, sliding beneath the thin top she wore to glide effortlessly over her bare skin. She shifted on his lap, causing a delicious friction to occur. For the first time since his adolescence and _The Woman,_ he was aroused.

Tearing his mouth away from hers, he kissed roughly down the slim column of her throat, breathing in her unique scent. He bit lightly at the seam of her neck and shoulder, drawing a startled gasp form Molly, who tugged roughly at his hair.

Pulling away slightly, he met her eyes questioningly. Her breathing was ragged, a light pink flush suffusing her face. Her already messy hair billowed around her in a fluffy cloud about her head. Desire had glazed her eyes and he wondered absently if his appearance was any better.

Seeing no doubt in her eyes, he slowly slipped her oversized t-shirt up her body and over her head. She met his gaze challengingly, sliding her hands over his shirt-covered chest, pausing only to undo buttons as she went.

Finally removing the offending garment, she ran her fingers appreciatively over his muscled chest, that was lightly scattered with hair. Dear god he was more beautiful than she remembered. She pressed her lips to a scar just beneath his collar bone, running her tongue lightly across it as he moaned, surprisingly loudly.

Inching his hands lower, Sherlock tightly gripped her hips whilst exposing more of his throat for her eager lips to caress. Pressing her firmly down on to his now throbbing cock, he thrust up slightly, attempting to dispel the need that was coursing through him. He knew he wouldn't last long; He'd only once, in his youth, been with a woman and it had not ended well. And, Molly was grieving. He was taking advantage of her and he should sto-

Her fingers had dipped beneath the waist band of his trousers, halting all cohesive thought. He hissed as they gently stroked him through his boxers, grabbing her wrists gently.

"I.. Uh.. It's been... We. You need to...not." He stood up and swallowed nervously, looking away from her. He felt her hands move to the button on his trousers, heard the quiet rasp of the zip being pulled down and the quiet rustle of his trousers and boxers slipping down his legs to puddle at his feet. Her warm breath brushed against his abdomen as she exhaled. Her palms caressed his sides lovingly as she pulled him back onto the bed, threading her fingers back though his hair.

Pushing her backwards gradually, he took her hand deliberately in his. She watched as he kissed each finger on her right hand, then her left, ending with her ring finger. The ring Tom had given her glinted reproachfully at her. Sherlock removed it in painstaking degrees, eyes smouldering possessively as it left her finger and landed with a dull thud on the floor. Climbing back over her naked body, he seized her mouth passionately, craving her in a way he had never experienced.

"Molly. Do we need protection?" All traces of the inexperienced, shy man he had been moments ago were gone. His eyes held an intensity equal to her own, as she shook her head.

"On the pill. Should be fine." Gasped as he pressed his hips to her core, the tip of his cock just grazing her clit.

"Are you sure?" He paused, poised to enter her at last.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock do you need a written invitation?" Pushing her hips up, she dug her heels into his arse, finally enveloping him in her heat. She sighed at the feeling of completeness, something she'd never quite felt with any other man. Of course, Sherlock Holmes was a unique creature; She'd always known that.

He had stilled within her, so she shifted her hips, taking him deeper. He groaned loudly at the sensation, holding her hips in place. Knowing he wouldn't last if she continued wriggling, her big doe-eyes begging him to do something, he lightly slipped his fingers through her juices up to her clit, as he eventually started to move.

The combined pressure of his fingers and his penis inside her had her writhing and gasping his name in minutes.

His slow, calculated movements, interspersed with softly muttered curses, started to pick up rhythm, swiftly becoming erratic and animalistic. He lightly bit and sucked her breasts and neck, caught up in sensation and.. _sentiment._

Lifting her leg over his shoulder, they both cried out at the sensations the new angle provided. Increasing the pace of his thrusts, he slammed into her repeatedly, adoring how she whimpered his name like a prayer each time he hit that spot inside her.

"Sher-Sherlock.. Fuck..." With a shuddering scream of his name, her delicate walls contracted around him as she came, dragging him over the precipice with her.

Lying with her tangled in his arms, sweat soaked and replete, he hoped he would have more evenings like this. Perhaps less of the getting home from hospital, finding dead - mutilated - pets and sobbing. He didn't want to imagine a life without this -her like this- any more.

* * *

Sorry about Toby! He's a loose end that needed to be tied up. I hope the smut wasn't awful. I'm out of practise. Feel free to review, I welcome the *hopefully constructive* criticism.


	9. Ring In A Body

Glad you guys liked the smut, more on its way WHICH IS BEING EVEN MORE OF AN ASSBUTT TO WRITE THAN LAST CHAPTER'S! Any way onwards :)

* * *

Sherlock woke to the feeling of Molly's dainty, wet tongue sliding down the shaft of his cock, eyes glinting mischievously. Completely at a loss as to why she would want to do..._ that_... he stared dazedly as she licked her way back up, finally sucking his tip into her warm, wet mouth. He fisted his hands in the sheets, trying desperately to maintain control of his errant body.

Her hand lifted to rest lightly on his, pulling it down to her breasts before returning it to his balls. Sucking lightly, she took him fully into her mouth, pressing the flat of her tongue against him.

Bobbing her head, she smiled around him as he started to moan, bucking his hips erratically, eyes fixed on hers. His mouth opened in a silent gasp as she flicked her tongue over the crest of his penis.

Needing to reciprocate the feelings of intense pleasure she was eliciting, he took her small breast into his hand, rolling her nipple between his fingers. She hissed in a breath, sucking firmly on the tip whilst she massaged his balls with one hand and ran her hand smoothly up and down the shaft. Embarrassingly soon, he felt his climax near, pulling her up forcefully to slide fluidly inside her dripping heat.

She grasped hold of his curls, forcing his head to her breast where he kissed and nipped his way to her straining nipple. Sucking it into his mouth, he employed the same tactics she had used - with such great effect - on him earlier, flicking it sensuously with his tongue. Her quiet sighs and moans encouraged him as he made his way tortuously slowly to her other breast, thrusting languorously up into her.

Flipping them suddenly, he captured her mouth in a soul searing kiss as he lifted her hips to drive more emphatically into her; her cries grew louder, fingers clawing into his back. Pace increasing rapidly, the force of his thrusts were forcing the bed back against the wall, so that each deep thrust caused a loud, distinct thump that could, he registered, be heard throughout the flat.

Her high keening had become a hissed chant of his name when he came inside her, groaning loudly whilst her walls fluttered around him after.

Regaining her breath, Molly slapped his bare arse as she extricated herself from their tangled limbs, heading for the small bathroom. Sherlock waited, expectantly, until an ear piercing shriek rang out and his bedroom door slammed open, Molly falling back through, hair all over her face.

"I take it John's here then?" He grinned wickedly as he scooped her up in his arms, sheet from the bed wrapped around them as he walked them through to the living room. Molly buried her head into his neck, inhaling his musky scent whilst simultaneously hiding her face from John.

"So. The big day. You must be delighted, John!" He sat in his seat opposite John -who inhabited the chair usually reserved for clients-, Molly curled, cat-like, around his large frame.

"Are.. Am I interrupting something? It's just that, you know, my wedding is in about four hours and you two are... Are you naked?"

"No!" Squeaked Molly, blushing bright red.

"Yes. Is that going to be a problem?" Sherlock met John's gaze steadily, challenging him.

"No.. No. Of course not. Congratulations, Molly, I hadn't realised that you had broken up with Tom. Can't say I blame you, Sherlock is rather more aesthetically pleasing," he said, winking at her. She refused to meet his gaze, still blushing faintly. She'd forgotten all about Tom, caught in an idyllic bubble with Sherlock being kind, protective and caring. She'd also forgotten completely about John and Mary's wedding. Today. Crap.

"Yeah, um, I should really shower..." Sitting up, she started to try and escape to the bathroom.

"Sweetheart, I don't really think you want to do that..." Tangling his hands in her hair, he tugged her head down to whisper in her ear, "Only one sheet between us, and if we get rid of John soon, we have time for a shower together..."

She squirmed slightly at the thought, warmth coursing through her insides. She giggled as he settled her back on his lap, feeling the length of his erection pressing against her buttocks, and he kissed her temple.

"So... Be at the church at one, yeah? I'd better... Yeah. I'd better give you two some space." Shaking his head incredulously, John stood up to leave, placing a notebook down on the table as he did so.

"Cases, in case you needed any more. Though I, uh, I can see you've found a way to utilise your time..."

"See you at the wedding, John!" Molly slipped from Sherlock's arms, nicking the sheet as she went and running laughing to the bathroom; leaving Sherlock standing completely naked and extremely erect in front of his best friend.

"Oh. OH. I'm going to go." John hurriedly averted his eyes, blushing slightly at the sight.

"Yes goodbye John I shall see you later." Sherlock turned quickly, roaring after her.

"Molly Hooper you are going to regret that!" Her answering shriek echoed down the stairway as John made his way outside smiling.

Finding her already drenched from the shower, he slid his arms slowly around her waist, dragging his fingers lazily over her thin torso. She was still dangerously skinny; he doubted, given her height and current estimated weight, that she had had a period in several months.

He nuzzled softly into her neck, taking the soapy scrunchie from her hand and rubbing it gently over the prominent points of her hip bones as she leant back into him.

"We can't be long, John needs me to go over the speech... " Turning to face him, she cupped his face lightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. She could see the concern written on his face, for her, for John, for the damned speech... She only wished she didn't have to go to the wedding with Tom; He had text her early in the morning saying he'd be back in time to pick her up - she had forgotten what for until she had seen John. Guilt spasmed through her, making her feel dirty and unclean.

She stepped away from him, rinsing off quickly and stepping out, leaving Sherlock to finish off. She had just gotten dressed and was preparing to leave when he walked out of the bathroom, hair tousled and a towel around his middle, looking lost.

"You're going?" His eyes looked haunted for a moment, childlike, before the cool collected mask she knew from old snapped back into place.

"Yeah.. I uh, I have to get ready. And you have best man duties, so I should really leave you to it." Stretching on her toes, she pulled his head down to peck him lightly on the lips, before wrapping her multi coloured scarf around her neck and leaving. Sherlock stared at the place she had been, his mind puzzling over her behaviour. Had she regretted it? He was fairly certain she had enjoyed it, though he wasn't exactly an expert.

Perhaps she felt guilty. Wandering through his flat, he set about preparing for the speech, running through the adventures he and John had shared. A few stood out, so he decided to just make the decision on what funny stories to tell, nearer the time. He had no doubt that he would make a fool of himself.

Bending to put on his socks, he saw the ring that he had thrown out of the way last night under the bed. He'd have to get it back to her, somehow.

For last night, thank you. I found your ring, you might want to get it. SH.

Molly's phone vibrated in her pocket, Sherlock's text making her freeze. Shit. She'd known she had forgotten something, it just.. She felt terrible, not only for cheating, but for forgetting so completely about the ring, Tom, even poor Toby.

Pushing the door to her flat open, she was devastated to notice that Toby's food bowls had been removed, but glad that her pet had been. The flat had been aired, romoving both the smell of decaying cat and old blood, instead smelling of the spring time air and Tom's cologne.

His hands came to rest on her waist, his body pressing against hers, so similar and yet so very different to Sherlock's.

"Did you miss me?" He whispered in her ear, making her shudder. Pasting a smile on her face, she faced him.

"Of course I missed you! You've been away ages since you visited me in hospital. Are you ready for the wedding?" She laced her left hand through his right, forgetting about her missing ring.

"Sweetheart, I feel terrible about being away. You went into hospital and Toby.. This is why you need me around, to look after you..." He rubbed his nose against her cheek, sniffing deeply. "Where is your ring, my love?"

She stilled in his arms, wishing desperately she was back in Baker Street.

"I think it's either in a body or the morgue sewers... I was dissecting quite a few bodies yesterday and I lost track of what was on my hands and what wasn't..."

A series of quick raps on the flat door startled Tom into releasing her.

"Are you expecting guests?" His eyes seemed flat, almost emotionless as he looked at her.

"It, it might be Sherlock..." She paused as he opened the door, before continuing, "I let him look at some of the bodies, he might have found it." Tom stared at Sherlock, who stood in a well tailored grey suit in the doorway. He looked stunning.

"Molly, I believe this is yours? Found it in the John Doe that came in yesterday with stomach cancer. You realise this is the sixth victim? I might actually be interested in this as a case..." Handing her the ring, he backed up slowly, eyes never leaving Molly's face. She seemed so uncomfortable, and had lost some of the warmth from her face, leaving her looking pale and drawn.

"I will see you both at the wedding." Turning on his heel, he made his way back to the street below, thinking about the repercussions of their night together. There was something very off about Tom, though he wasn't quite sure what.

He felt like he knew Tom from somewhere, but he couldn't pin point where. The entire cab ride to the wedding venue, a pretty church in the outskirts of London, he searched his mind palace for clues to his identity. It was as thought there were spaces where information on Tom should have been, and it frustrated him.

The wedding passed smoothly, despite causing the congregation to cry, which he still didn't quite understand. Molly had looked radiant, in a soft yellow dress that reached just below the knees and her hair swept into a bun held by a yellow hair piece of some sort. He had felt her eyes lingering on him all evening, refusing to meet her gaze despite how his body yearned for hers.

The maid of honour appeared at his side again, presumably to get more help to find a date.

"You know it's a shame you're... You know."

He nodded blithely, not really paying attention. He left her in the hall way, heading to his room to retrieve his violin and wedding gift and returned to the ballroom.

John and Mary were in the middle of the room, both looking radiant, love apparent in their eyes. Striking up the first few chords, he watched them dance their waltz with poise and grace, fitting together as though made for one another.

Gradually, the dance floor filled with partners, Molly drawing his gaze as she danced with Tom. His hand lay possessively on her back, eyes scanning her face as they swayed in time to the music. The sight made Sherlock's insides twist painfully, though he showed no outside sign of it, continuing to play the instrument.

He left as soon as he was able, bitterness settling in the pit of his stomach - completely missing Molly's argument with Tom, as she threw the damned ring back at him.

He left before she could catch him.

* * *

Another chapter done! I estimate another four chapters? Ish :) and for every one not familiar with a scruchie, it's a beautiful scrubby thing you wash with and I adore them. Has nothing to do with the fact that using a wash cloth is a but grubby and requires a lot more washing .`. effort.


	10. Not A Whole Lot You Can Do

Wow guys, this is going down much better than I ever thought it would!

I own none of these characters, only the storyline (which I have loosely based around Moffat's canon).

* * *

The next month was hell, for both of them.

Sherlock had thrown himself into cases to distract himself from the feeling of loss he felt every time he so much as thought of Molly, and to remind himself that he had always been perfectly fine on his own. The Magnussen case was tricky, and he didn't want to blow it. So he'd "reverted" back to his drug habits.

Molly's sickness, that sleeping with Sherlock had helped abate somewhat, had returned forcefully, resulting in almost no sleep and a heavy reliance on painkillers to get her through the day. Her flat seemed endlessly empty when she was there, so she had begun spending inordinate amounts of time in the morgue, just filling her time with work.

Today, however, she was furious. Sherlock had been found in a _drug den_ high as a fucking kite and hadn't even the decency to look guilty.

She knew he knew she was angry. She could also tell that he didn't expect her to slap him, the second and third times.

"How dare you. How _dare you!" _Eyes narrowed menacingly, she stood close to him, anger lending her courage. He'd disappeared for weeks! He'd given no explanation for his actions, and was allegedly sleeping with the maid of honour. She had every right to be angry.

She slapped him again, demanding a response with her eyes, whilst verbally reprimanding him.

"Say you're sorry." Her world had narrowed down to him and her; she was completely oblivious to the surprised and faintly approving looks the others were giving her.

"I'm sorry..." He paused, venom leaking into his voice. "For the break up of your engagement. Though I am really rather glad for the lack of ring..."

"Stop it. Stop this, now." She forced his gaze up to hers, startled by the emotion they held. His eyes seemed to swirl with bitterness, anger, and acceptance. She hated it.

He pushed off the work bench, brushing his shoulder against hers as he did so, causing a spark to shiver up her arm. Her hand tingled from slapping him, and his face had a vibrant red mark spanning his cheekbones.

They stared at one another, neither flinching, both unwilling to break first.

John cleared his throat behind them, going unnoticed by both.

"You left. You went back to him! What, wasn't I enough for you? You played me." Sherlock's eyes flashed with anger as he spat at her.

"I left to tell him it was over! You are so bloody wrapped up in yourself, that you assume you're right, all the bloody time. It's so frustrating! If you'd JUST BLOODY WAITED AT THE WEDDING, YOU WOULD HAVE SEEN ME BREAK UP WITH HIM!" She paused, face flushed and chest heaving. "You know you mean more to me than anyone else ever could. I'm sorry. But you are not without blame here."

Sherlock blinked rapidly. His eyes, usually so icy, seemed almost childlike as he blinked at her, hurt and relief warring within them.

"You ... mean a lot to me too." Swallowing thickly, he turned to go, finally noticing their audience.

"Sherlock... Wait. Let me get an ice pack for your cheeks..." Resting her hand carefully against his tender flesh, she turned his face back to hers. Running it smoothly into his hair, she whispered into his ear.

"Want to give them a shock?" She giggled softly as his hands came to rest in the small of her back, pressing her gently against him, turning his head to capture her lips in an almost hungry kiss.

"Molly, you might not want to do that, he's a bit dirty. And high... In fact, you know what? Maybe I should go." Lestrade looked around the lab awkwardly, before half running, half skipping out.

"No need. We'll go..." Sherlock lifted her into his arms, noting how frail she seemed. She'd lost even more weight in the past month, and a part of him couldn't quite help but blame himself.

Once in a cab, he studied her as she sat beside him. Her face was gaunt, her delicate cheekbones jutting sharply from her face, her eyelids appearing thin and translucent. Her skin itself seemed papery and dry, cracked around her lips and on her knuckles. The only part of her showing some true sign of life were her eyes, though they seemed dazed and realised she was taking painkillers; he presumed that the pain had come back stronger than before and felt even worse for not letting her explain.

"You look awful." She glanced at him warily as he turned fully towards her.

"And you look like a drug addict." Her chin had risen defiantly, unafraid of insulting him. Well, it was true, he mused idly.

"Part of a case, Molly. If it could have been another way, I wouldn't have gone near the place." Sincerity written over his face, she raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"It's for a case involving Magnussen. I want him to believe I am vulnerable and come after me, so I can expose him."

Molly sighed.

"You do know that he can quite easily not only discredit you, but me, Mycroft, John, Mary... Everyone! You're putting everyone at risk! How_ fucking stupid_ are you?" Unexpectedly, she burst into tears.

"Oh bugger. Molly? Don't cry. Please?" Drawing her into his arms and resting her head beneath his chin, he mulled over what she had said whilst rubbing soothing circles on her back.

It was all true. He had tried to ignore it, as though not thinking about those possible circumstances would stop them from coming to fruition. However, hearing her say it out loud made the entire operation seem even more fool hardy than it already was.

"And.. And you didn't stop to-to think th-that maybe I- we would miss you. I have _missed you_, Sherlock." She continued to sniffle into his chest, as his heart seemed to contract and overflow and perform somersaults in his chest, completely surprising him.

He'd convinced himself they wouldn't even notice his absence, Molly occupied with Tom, John with Mary... Her saying that she had missed him made emotions long suppressed raise their hopeful heads in anticipation.

"I... Am a complete idiot."

She chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and making him laugh lightly too.

"Yeah, you are. But I love you anyway." Again his heart performed acrobatics in his chest as he hugged her closer and kissed the top of her head.

"Thank you."

* * *

"Dammit. Mycroft's here." His face scrunched into a petulant scowl as he surveyed the front door of 221 Baker Street.

"How do you know?" She was tired, the afternoon having sapped most of her energy.

"Door knocker. He always straightens it, OCD and he doesn't even notice he's doing it." Sauntering up the stairs with Molly in his wake, he pushed open the door of his flat to be accosted by the sight of seven people rifling through his accumulated...possessions... whilst Mycroft sat like a queen bee in the middle of the ruckus.

"What's going on?" Molly marched over to where Anderson was rummaging through a drawer in Sherlock's desk.

"Drugs bust. It's for his own good, Molly." Anderson grimaced apologetically, hands splayed open in surrender.

"And this lot? Who the hell are they?"

"Uh they're, uh-"

"My.. Fan club, Molly. Anderson here created the group and it's still as popular as when I was... playing dead."

"Okay. You lot," She gestured widely to the assembled teenagers and Anderson. "Out. I have this under control, we really don't need you here. Sorry, Philip"

A girl with straight, dyed black hair jutted her chin out defiantly, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I ain't going nowhere. Besides, who are you tellin' me what to do?" The girl's strong welsh accent coupled with her youthful voice made then entire situation even more ridiculous than it already was.

"I am Molly Hooper. An.. Associate of Sherlock's. We have a matter of some importance to discuss with Mycroft Holmes," At the mention of his name, Mycroft lifted his head and smiled sardonically, "And we need to do this in private. Which means no fangirls. And I mean NO fangirls."

The girl opened her mouth as if to argue further, then shut it angrily at a look from Anderson. One by one, they trickled out of the room and down the stairs, Molly following to ensure they all left.

"Mycroft? Do you finally have those results? It's been two months, surely you must have found something by now. Provided there is something to be found, of course." Sherlock trailed off, cursing the course of action that had resulted in his mind being so fuzzy. The drugs always did that. It had been part of the appeal.

"Sherlock, about the results..."

"Results for what?" Molly had slipped back into the room, looking completely exhausted.

"Nothing, miss Hooper. Why don't you go to the bedroom and get some sleep?" Sherlock was out of his chair in an instant, blocking the hallway.

"Or you could sit on my lap. That's..." He searched for a word she would appreciate. " Cosier. Isn't it?" Taking her firmly by the shoulders, he steered her to his seat, sitting and drawing her slight frame onto his lap where she curled her legs beneath her overly large t-shirt.

"You were saying about the results?" Sherlock fixed his gaze onto his brother, feeling Molly's breathing start to become regular and deep, despite her best efforts to stay awake.

"I really don't think we should discuss this in front of her, Sherlock. She might hear and do something irresponsible."

"Mycroft, she's out cold. I'd say she hasn't been getting regular amounts of sleep for about a month," his insides twinged slightly with guilt, " and I think that after a month and a half of regularly sleeping beside her I can recognise the her different levels of sleep. She won't wake up for another couple of hours at least."

"Sherlock, we found high quantities of Cyclophosphamide, Aristolochic acid, Ethylene oxide, Azathioprine, Vinyl chloride and... a trace amount of plutonium in all of the samples. I took the liberty of sending a radiation specialist to her flat. Someone has gone to great lengths to cause Molly's death; you know what these chemicals do, Sherlock. I'm sure she does, too. Christ, high enough amounts of just one would be enough to cause her mutations, but all of them..." Mycroft trailed off, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching the steady rise and fall of Molly's shoulders.

"What do we do?" He tightened his grip on the sleeping woman as the reality of their situation sank in.

"Honestly, Sherlock? There's not a whole lot you can do."

.

* * *

Sorry. Bit of a cliff hanger, and all will be revealed about Molly's condition in time.


	11. Slicing Deep

So here we are, another chapter done and the usual sadness that accompanies me not owning anything except the plot. No smut, but Tom is back. Thanks for the reviews, guys, they really helped :D

* * *

Sherlock spent the day doing extra research into the compounds found in Molly's apartment: It was a miracle she didn't glow in the dark or have tentacles growing from her foot.

Some of the side effects were horrendous, cancer, radiation poisoning, intimately leading to death. And if she had been being fed this for two years? Sherlock pushed the unwelcome thoughts to an enclosed part of his mind palace, focusing instead on how someone would have managed to get hold of such hazardous compounds.

Most radiation specialists aren't cleared to handle them, suggesting they were either very high up the food chain, or someone had friends who were. It was the plutonium that threw him the most. The others were, if added to the right substances, virtually undetectable without checking for radiation, but plutonium? He knew he was missing something, and that the plutonium was probably key.

Sighing, he pushed his curls back from his face, tension showing in the set of his shoulders and the frown etched into his forehead.

"Your hair looks good like that. Scraped off your face, I mean. It makes you look... Dangerous. And a little bit sexy..." He pretended not to hear her, stretching his free arm out in a silent request for her to join him. She pushed off the door frame, snuggling her nose into his neck as he wrapped his arm around her tiny waist. Her collar bones protruded angrily through her translucent skin and he could feel each of her ribs through the t-shirt she wore, whilst her eyes as she gazed up at him seemed too large for her face. She was a walking skeleton.

"You look so serious! What is it?" A battle waged within him, half of him wanting to be truthful and tell her all that he suspected about the literal battle commencing inside her, the other half not wanting to make her worse by telling her and making her panic.

"It... It's the Magnussen case. I- uhm I don't know what angle to come from any more, without hurting you. And the others." He had aimed for his business voice but it had come out strained, almost strangled, as he watched her eyes droop again. It was going to be like this for however long it took, he realised.

"You could leave it? For a while, anyway. Just stay home with me..." Her words trailed off as sleep claimed her once again, the painkillers she was taking making her drowsier than she already was. Looking at the time, he sighed. _Might as well go to bed_ he thought as he lifted her gently, trying not to jostle her unnecessarily on the way to his room. Settling her in his arms in the bed, he drew the covers up and around the two of them in the hope of keeping her slight body warm.

He fell asleep still thinking about the bloody plutonium.

* * *

He woke to an empty bed. More importantly, a _cold_ empty bed.

Panic seized his heart.

Throwing back the blankets he shot out of bed, frantically calling for her, hoping that she had gone for a walk or had fallen asleep on the sofa. Or something innocuous and entirely Molly.

Finding the flat empty, he made his way swiftly back to his room, aiming to throw some clothes -any clothes- on and search London for her, maybe ask Mycroft or his homeless network.

His phone vibrated on the bedside table.

_"Did you miss me?"_ flashed across the screen. Frowning, he watched as a series of new messages came through, one after another in quick succession.

_Did YOU miss me?_

_DID you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me, Sherlock?_

**_Did YOU miss ME?_**

**_DID YOU MISS ME_**

**_Did you miss me, Sherlock?_**

**_Sherlock did you miss me?_**

**_I miss you, Sherlock. Your girlfriend does too._**

He stared at his phone as a photo of Molly, pale, bruised and bound flashed onto his screen.

**_Relax, your little girlfriend won't die yet. I plan to have my fun with her first. Here's a clue; The last place you stopped a murder. M._**

His brain whirled frantically, sorting through all the cases he had solved recently. Most of the interesting ones had been murders, except... Major Sholto.

The major.

Perhaps his room at the wedding? Or the venue itself?

Grabbing his coat and phone he was in a cab within moments, shouting the directions to the cabbie as he texted Lestrade, his brother and John, asking them to meet him there.

_Why? MH_

_Someone has Molly, Mycroft, that's why. SH_

_Why do you need **me,** little brother? MH_

_Because you're powerful, brother dear, and I need to utilise that power. SH _

_Fine. But I won't stay long, I have a meeting with the prime minister of France at twelve. MH_

_Sherlock, I can't, Mary has a scan. I need to be here. Can't you get Molly to come? JW_

_Molly is gone. Someone has her. Please, John. SH _

_Seriously, mate I can't. Anderson might help though. JW _

Irritation swirled through Sherlock at John, even as he found Anderson's number and called him.

"Anderson, it's Sherlock. Yes really. Yes. Let me talk. Someone has Molly and I need your help. Come to John and Mary's wedding venue, apparently there is a clue waiting for me there. Thank you." Sherlock sighed as he checked his phone for any other texts. The bridesmaid, Jenny..Janine had text him, as well as three new potential clients. Nothing from Scotland Yard.

Finally arriving at the venue, he was met by Anderson, Lestrade and Donovan, as well as a dozen police officers of varying rank.

"Sherlock, Anderson just told me Molly's been taken? When?" Concern lined Greg's face.

"Sometime in the past nine hours. We were asleep, and I woke up and she.. Was... Gone." He swallowed thickly. "Help me find her."

They split up inside to search the rooms, calling her name fruitlessly as they made their way painstakingly through the building.

"Sherlock are you sure there's a clue here? None of us have found any-"

"SHERLOCK!" Anderson came sprinting down the stairs, a photograph clutched in his hands.

Almost ripping it in his haste to remove it from Anderson's grip, he studied the photo.

In it, Molly's tired face was pressed against his chest as they made their way out of Barts. His face had been made blurry, all focus on hers. Sniffing, he detected faint traces of a vaguely familiar aftershave, mechanical oil and the unmistakable smell of blood. Scrawled on the back in what looked to be the source of the smell were the words DID YOU MISS ME?

"We need to go to Barts, Jim's old office." Running to the police car, he waited impatiently for Lestrade and ran through the possibilities of the words. His instinct told him it wasn't actually Jim, but either one last overlooked tendril of his network or someone trying to create widespread panic.

The aftershave, however, was irritating him. Much like he knew that the Plutonium was important, he knew that he knew it from someone and that it was key to finding her alive.

Lestrade finally arrived at the car, frowning angrily as he drove towards Bart's. Sherlock was fairly certain they broke ninety percent of those road traffic law things and found himself completely not caring. His over active mind was whirling as they drove, focussing on the small discrepancies in the case.

The photo he had been sent that morning. Comparing it to the Molly in the photo they had just received, it was impossible to reconcile the bound, otherwise healthy looking, Molly with his Molly. His Molly that had slapped him just yesterday with fire in her glazed eyes and her skin pulled taught over protruding bones, hair straggly and unkempt. His Molly that had compared him to a drug addict, when in reality they both looked as bad as each other.

The first photo wasn't recent.

"Take me to the drug den. Let everyone else keep going to Bart's, Mycroft will meet them there. If I'm wrong, they can keep checking out leads. NOW, GREG!"

Greg turned the wheel of the car sharply, almost crashing into incoming traffic as he swung the car around.

"Are you sure about this?" Even with his focus on the road, indecision played across his features.

"Right now, I'm not sure about anything. The probability of her being there is much higher after I was caught there since all the old addicts will have had to move to another dilapidated, run down building, leaving this one conveniently free. Plus the killer knows me - or rather Molly - very well, and is using her to draw me away. Where else would he be able to go and be sure I would find him?"

Greg pulled to a stop just down the road from the building and turned to face him fully.

"Do you know what you're walking into? There could be snipers. Molly.. She could be dead. Anything could be in there, and you're just going to walk in?"

"You're right, I have no idea what is in there. But Molly may be, and I have to believe she is alive." He got out of the car and started towards the dilapidated building, Greg crashing into him as he suddenly stopped dead.

"Sherlock what are you waiting for?"

"Shut up. Shut up and _listen," _Sherlock hissed at him, the sound of screaming echoing sinisterly through the shattered windows.

"Shit. MOLLY!" Taking off at a sprint, he slammed through the front door, leaving it hanging desolately on one hinge as he tore towards the source of the screaming.

Molly lay in a foetal heap on the floor, hands over her ears, eyes screwed shut as she whimpered. Projected onto the walls around her a sick film played, Moriarty and another man - his back to the camera, face unseen by both the Molly in the shot and Sherlock - torturing her mercilessly, her screams slicing deep into him whilst the scenes being played out made his stomach want to revolt.

On the walls, her legs strained against the other man's arms as Jim used a small razor to slice deeply into her flesh before pouring boiling water over her bleeding wounds, her eyes rolling back in her head.

The image cut to her being raped viciously by Jim as he other man watched from the shadows, staying out of her line of sight.

"No, no, no, no, no. You've got to enjoy the suspense, Sebastian... It'll be your turn next_." _Jim's booming voice ricocheted around the room.

_ "Make it stop." _

Molly's broken voice broke his last reserve of control.

"MORAN!"

He knelt beside Molly and reached out to to lay his palm on her shoulder as her eyes flew open, wide and unseeing, an unearthly scream of pure fear filling the room.

"Oh Sherlock. You missed the best part. Poor little Molly was defending you, you know. Told me all about how you pushed her away for years and years before you gave in, before you let your emotions rule over you. She wouldn't tell me anything else though, no matter how hard I pushed those pressure points. I suppose that our little experiments three years ago toughened her up. Or maybe it's all those painkillers. No matter. You're here now, so the fun can begin."

Sherlock turned slowly to face Moran, hatred and disgust blazing in his eyes as he glared at Molly's ex fiance.

"Did you miss me?"

* * *

Any feedback? Yay! I did say Tom would be back! And well done, he is a psychopath. Next chapter should be done soon :)


	12. An Icy Mask Of Disdainful Horror

Ahahaha poor Molly, yes? Well guess what? No, no I can't tell you. Read away! But sorry for the insanely late chapter. Okay I also think I should warn you, there are some pretty gruesome bits coming up, there is a reason this is labelled an M and it's not for my crappy attempts at smut.

* * *

Tom smiled as he observed the broken woman in front of him, completely disregarding Sherlock.

"You know, had Jim lived, all of this could have been avoided. It's _your fault_ this is happening again, Molly. All you had to do was help him fake his death. But no. You saved _THAT_ instead!" He pointed angrily at Sherlock, as her eyes found his.

"Do you know what the best part is? You didn't even recognise me. Even after I became so very possessive, you blindly trusted me to live with you."

Molly shuddered at his slimy tone, refusing to break eye contact despite wanting with every fragment of her soul to be as far away from that revolting room as possible.

"I broke you, Molly Hooper, and you are _never _going to be fixed. I have made contingency plans, of course. In case your boyfriend here decides to avenge you. Or something stupidly romantic as that.

"You've become quite domesticated, haven't you, Sherlock? But the best part of all of this is that not only do I get the pleasure of gutting you, but Sherlock will know how it feels to lose _the one person that matters the most to him." _He laughed cruelly as he called for assistance.

"Tie Sherlock up. Tightly, will you, Bill? And check him for weapons."

Bill moved towards Sherlock, blocking Tom's view of him momentarily as he slipped a pocket knife into Sherlock's hands before wrenching them behind his back and tying them securely. Sherlock struggled futilely as Bill patted down his coat and trousers, removing a small blade from his shoe and throwing it out of reach.

"Very good. You can go now. Oh and remove the other man, he's blocking the doorway. Now, where were we?" Tom stalked forwards predatorally, a slow evil grin spreading across his features.

"Oh yes, I was telling you about how I intend to gut you, slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. Maybe I'll even skin you, for the hell of it."

Sherlock's cold gaze belied the turmoil roiling inside of him, his stomach turning even as he sawed subtly at the robes binding his hands behind his back.

"How shall we start, sweetheart?" Tom extracted a log, slim knife from his inside pocket that glinted in the half light.

She grimaced as it bit smoothly into her hollow cheek, determined not to make a sound. Blood ran in a steady stream down her chin as he carved intricate patterns into her face, her eyes holding Sherlock's even when she wanted to screw them shut and whimper pitifully.

Tom stepped back to examine her face, tilting it to and fro to best catch the light.

Drawing the bloodied knife to his lips, he carefully licked it clean, smiling at her disgusted expression.

"Oh my, do you find that unpleasant? Well suck it up, slut. I know you were sleeping with that shit over there behind my back. Not that I overly care, I shall make that clear. But I object that you slept with Jim, the 'great' Sherlock Holmes, and _then_ me. You really do like your psychopaths, don't you?"

Lifting her chin defiantly, she spat some blood out of her mouth at him.

"My type is high functioning sociopaths, actually. Do your research. I find you pathetic."

He slapped her face forcefully, causing her to cry out as he hit the fresh, oozing cuts. She refused to look away from him, challenging him to do his worst.

"I will teach you, Molly, to respect your betters. You didn't deserve Jim. Of course, he was only using you to get to your boyfriend, but you knew that. You were nothing to him, nothing to me, nothing to Sherlock. You. Are. Nothing." He pulled her head back by the hair, holding her head in place as he drew the knife down the column of her neck and over her collar bones.

"Argh! Th- the bodies. I-in the m-morgue. They w-were y-you?" Forcing the words out as she panted for breath against the pain, she watched as his face contorted angrily.

"Well done. Aren't you a _clever little girl? _Has Sherlock been teaching you some tricks? Yes, I have been killing people. It's what I do." He paused, dipping his finger into the dip in her collar bone where a pool of blood was collecting and bringing it to her lips, proceeded to smear it over them.

"_I made them suffer. I fed them chemicals too radioactive for normal people to touch and watched them as they died, their bodies killing themselves from the inside out until I put them out of their misery. I left London and killed the rest of them, slowly, intimately, in more ways than you could imagine." _He hissed into her ear, making her shudder with revulsion.

"Why. W-why wou-ould you do that?" She glanced at Sherlock, whose face had hardened into a disdainful mask of horror.

"Because I can. That's it! I can and I am _good at it_." He stabbed her sharply in the belly, leaving on oozing hole inches from her stomach wall. Non fatal, but a lot of blood.

"Do you know what's growing inside you? Nothing so pleasant as a child, of course not. You're too skinny, now, thanks to me. No, something far more deadly, far more beautiful is growing inside of you. Can you guess?" She shook her head sharply as tears, unbidden, mixed with the blood dripping down her face.

"What about you, Sherlock? I bet you'll know. The _Great Detective_, of course you've worked it out." He looked to where Sherlock sat, pain contorting his features as he watched her struggle for composure.

"C..." He cleared his throat, swallowing down the lump that had formed there. "Tumours." His voice rang out clearly in the almost silent room. Jim's face mocked them on the walls, a grotesque mime played on repeat.

"Oh you clever thing, I bet you've known for weeks, haven't you." Sherlock's stricken expression confirmed it.

"..._No."_

Her voice cracked, betrayal flitting across her features as his face crumpled and a tear slid down his pale cheek.

"Naughty boy, Sherlock. Didn't tell your girlfriend? I'm sure you've worked out by now that those men I killed? I practised. Over and over, making sure the quantities wouldn't kill her - them - outright, but slowly and without detection. I couldn't have them giving off radiation and alerting people. You going away, Sherlock, was just perfect timing. And to be away, for soooooo loong! It was like Christmas every day." He sidled over to where Sherlock was bound, making a small nick in his cheek and licking the drop of blood that formed there.

"Your blood is so much _sweeter_, Molly dear. Of course, I can't drink too much of it. Who knows what is in your blood now, after so many months of such a volatile mix of chemicals. Jim gave me the idea. You see, we used to have brain storming sessions of different ways to kill people, and _your _death came up surprisingly often."

He squatted in front of her, forcing her chin up so her face was level with his.

_"Look. At. Me._"

She stared bravely over his right shoulder, taking in the image of Jim beating her in the same room from years before, played out on the walls to ensure that if she survived, she would not forget.

He brought the knife up to her eye socket, applying gentle pressure. The tender skin parted effortlessly and a shiny ribbon of crimson blood trickled out, blinding her slightly.

"I _dreamed_ of cutting you open, of making you suffer for letting Jim die. You are the reason so many _innocents_ are dead. It's all your fault. _Look at me or I swear on Jim's grave I will remove your eye." _The pressure of the knife increased almost imperceptibly, only the increased pace of the flow of blood showing how far he had penetrated.

She cleared her throat raggedly.

"If you...remove my...eye...I won't...Be... able to...look at...you."

He laughed unexpectedly, withdrawing the knife and throwing her a handkerchief.

"Clean yourself up. You're a beautiful mess, my own little canvas. And yet, I feel like perhaps I should move to a different part of you. Perhaps, I think, your legs? What fun we had with those last time. Don't you remember, sweet pea?" He withdrew a projector clicker, moving through the collected recordings until he came to one from out side the room, Molly tied spread eagled on a bed whilst Jim stood at her waist.

She flinched as the film began to play, her terrified voice echoing from the speakers surrounding the room as she begged them to stop burning the insides of her legs. Jim's shrill laughter rang out as she screamed, Tom holding a glowing poker millimetres from her leg to ensure no scarring would occur. Her flesh visibly bubbled though the glowing tip was not touching her; Sherlock thanked any and all deities that existed for that. The sight of her flesh melting beneath the poker would have been too much for even his steady stomach to handle.

Tom smirked as he sidled over, dropping the knife to the floor and undoing his trousers. Molly's eyes widened as they slid to the ground with a sickening slithering sound, watching the bulge in his boxers grow as her eyes widened in fear and comprehension.

"No. No! You bastard!" She thrashed against him as he forced her legs apart, pulling his boxers down and reaching for the discarded knife. Sherlock's numb fingers stilled as horror overtook his body momentarily.

He was scared for her.

Her muffled cries filled the room, mingling with the echoes of those from the speakers of three years before. His hand clenched around the blade of the knife involuntarily, tearing into the soft flesh of his palm, the pain bringing him abruptly back to his senses. Blood dripped from his hand to the floor, sharpening his mind and determination to end her suffering.

He forced his mind away from her, despite the sounds threatening to shatter his hard won control. He scanned the room for exits -_ three_, any weapons he could use -_crow bar, hammer, at a push bed post, and pocket knife - _and anything he could use as a distraction,_ like an exploding projector or something.__  
_

He resumed his efforts to free his hands from the bindings.

Molly screamed, the sound setting his teeth on edge and causing his heart to die a little inside his chest.

He glanced up, meeting Molly's terrified eyes, full of tears as Tom used the knife to slice open the tender skin in the inside of her thighs. Her blood ran thick and red down the pale skin to the floor, coating the front of his thighs as he thrust forcefully into her.

Sherlock noticed a faint whistling as he sawed frantically at the last few threads of rope binding him. His heart beat erratically with fear, adrenaline and revulsion as Molly's whimpers grew fainter. Tom grunted and strained against her, the sound of his legs slapping against her blood coated flesh sickening Sherlock as her neared completion, finally collapsing on top of her.

The windows near the ceiling smashed open, raining glass and splinters of rotting wood down on them, casting a shimmery, deadly, snow like layer over them, cutting their faces and arms and casting a deathly pall of silence through the room.

In seconds, Sherlock was up, pen knife pressed to Tom's jugular, knees pinning his arms to his sides. He applied a little pressure, letting blood bead where the knife had ruptured the skin and allowing a sense of control sweep over him as he looked into the eyes of the man below him.

Molly lay prone beside them as he slid the knife cleanly into Tom's throat, wishing he had had time to make him suffer as Molly had.

Standing, he looked down with disgust at the man who had almost cost him Molly. She lay in his arms, seeking desperately to stay conscious as she felt her body go into shock, uncaring that Tom's blood was pressed against her face having soaked into Sherlock's shirt.

"Can... we...go...?"

They left the room, the projector still playing whilst a little bird flew in through the open window, chirping happily in the dying sunlight.

* * *

OOoooooooh! How almost exciting! Sorry again for the late chapter, I've been surprisingly busy *watching Coriolanus* but the next chapter will be up soon. Much sooner than this one, any way :)


	13. Gentle Descent Into Blissful Oblivion

So thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope this makes up for the horror that was the last one. It didn't to flow until I managed to become angry and then... Molly suffered for it. Sorry Molly!

watch?v=0SGo3sT67CA : Say Something Violin cover, listen to it whilst reading, I was getting some inspiration from it!

And this just cause it makes me think of it. I have a thing for violins :)

watch?v=WjLJN4XFoWE

* * *

Laying in bed, Molly watched as the doctors drew Sherlock outside her room, concern creasing his face before he drew a detached mask of indifference across his features. She shifted awkwardly, wincing through the strong pain medication as she jarred her healing wounds.

She had had to have stitches, and only one of her eyes was uncovered, most of her face encased within snowy white bandages that were changed four times a day, her torso and legs even more heavily bandaged on top of the numerous stitches that had been needed to stem the bleeding. She'd lost so much blood, her heart had stopped three times on the way to the hospital and once there had needed a transfusion immediately.

Sherlock was pleading self defence. Turned out, there had been cameras in the room, probably for prosperity from Tom's point of view, which had captured the entire horrific experience from numerous angles.

Lestrade wasn't even going to bother investigating. Sherlock had told her that out of Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade and Cooper, not one of them had managed to keep their stomachs after watching it.

He'd needed stitches too.

The slice on his hand had gone further than he had realised, so he was ordered off experiments for a while. He didn't mind. He hadn't left her side at all, except to shower when she had complained of how he smelled. She hadn't actually minded Sherlock smelling. It reinforced that he was human, but she knew that he needed a stroke of normality, and she did too.

Just... A moment or two to cry without anyone noticing or worrying or trying to cheer her up, a moment where she could be upset after going through such a traumatic event without having to reassure her friends that she was fine.

She hated it.

Their constant need for reassurance, as though it had been them in the room and not her.

They crowded her, setting her apart and not letting her have peace.

Sherlock was the only one who understood, and let her be quiet, or cry, or kiss him, what ever she needed he would let her.

But she couldn't rely on him so heavily. Hence making him shower. Turning to look at him, his face outwardly revealed nothing to her, which made her instantly cautious and irritated.

"They'll be letting you out in about a week, as long as nothing complicates the healing process such as internal bleeding, infection or rupturing of the sutures. You will still need to stay off work, rest and all that. Don't worry," he paused as her face crumpled into a worried frown, "I won't take any cases until you..."

He trailed off, throat constricting.

"Until I am better?" A hopeful note crept into her voice.

"Yes. Until... Until you're better." He couldn't bear to meet her gaze properly, staring fixedly at the middle if her nose.

She tilted her head to the side slightly, studying his carefully moderated features, searching for a crack in the facade to draw him out of. There was none, his face impassive and stony, impenetrable beneath her eyes gently probing.

"Are you comfortable? Do you need increased pain relief? The set of your shoulders suggest there is discomfort around the rib area and the lines around your mouth indicate you have been pursing them, presumably in pain, which in turn leads me to believe that you are in far more pain than you are letting us know. Please let me help you, Molly." His eyes softened, melting into beautiful pools of shimmery aquamarine, deep and inviting as they begged her to let him help.

"You're right, of course. Could you... I mean.. Could we..." She felt her cheeks warm in a blush, feeling completely foolish.

"Can we? What? You're not ready for... Intercourse... Molly!" His cheeks, usually so pale, bloomed with colour as his voice raised in pitch in his surprise and embarrassment.

"Oh! No! Sweet Jesus that is the last thing on my mind!" Mortified, she could feel what little of her face was uncovered turning flaming red.

"I uh, I wanted to... Cuddle. I need to sleep, and I sleep best in your arms... And you need to sleep too. I will wake you if I need you. I promise."

He laughed, relieved.

Climbing into the bed beside her, he drew her gently into his warm embrace, smiling slightly as she relaxed against him, the tension leaking out of her, her breathing levelling and becoming deep and regular.

He cradled her against his chest, hearing her breath catch unevenly as she whimpered in her sleep. The drugs were meant to help with nightmares, but from what he had observed, they were about as helpful as paying Donovan to actually clean his flat.

The only thing he had found to help her had been music, and his presence. When he had had to leave her side in her sleep, he had left a music player playing music he had recorded for her in the room, mostly gentle, soothing violin music, though he had ventured so far as playing some of her favourite pop songs on the violin too. Her taste in music was unusual, with songs such as _The arms of the angel _and _Say Something _mixed in with _Stupid Girls _and _Love Song. _He'd covered all her most listened to ones, placing them in a playlist and watched her visibly relax in her sleep when the music reached her ears.

He set the iPod to play _Say Something_ and eased out of the room, a sad smile playing on his lips as she shuffled further under the thin blankets.

* * *

She woke up twelve hours later, Sherlock absent from her side and the gentle sound of violins playing around her.

She felt wrong.

Cancer was a funny thing. A strange, quiet, terrifying way to die. It astonished her that it had taken her so long to figure it out. It was embarrassing, really, how long it had taken her. She was a _Medical Examiner, _a damned _pathologist, _and yet she hadn't picked up on the signs.

The loss of appetite.

Subsequent weightloss.

Breathlessness.

Nausea.

Stomach cramps.

Vomiting blood had been a pretty strong indicator.

She had ignored such obvious signs of her body's distress, putting it down to stress, worry and a million other menial things.

She didn't want things to end like this.

She was just starting to live life the way she had always wanted; loved. Confident. _Happy._

Sherlock loved her. She'd never get the chance to hear him say it though. All her strength had left her in the night: She couldn't move to find him even if she wanted to. Oh, god how she wanted to.

Tears slid, unbidden, down what little of her face was uncovered, slipping into the soft cotton of the bandages. How had everything gone so wrong, so quickly from being so ... perfect? She had no idea how long she had left.

She'd thought it would be painful.

Lying in the bed, staring blankly at the clinically white ceiling, the sound of Sherlock's violin cascaded around the room. He must have left the music playing when he left, for when she awoke. A weak smile curved her lips at the thought. Who'd have guessed he could be so thoughtful? The gentle music swelled and ebbed around her, lulling her into a safe cocoon of safety. Sleep called to her, asking her to give in and rest again and Lord how she _wanted_ to give in to exhaustion.

Fatigue pulled slowly, determinedly, at her muscles, draining her further.

The pain had gone.

The last tie holding her tightly to the fabric of reality had snapped in the night, leaving her drifting softly, effortlessly, up towards the heavens. Summoning her remaining energy, she stretched her arms out to the sides, pausing when the cold, plastic case of the call button came into contact with her warm fingers.

She pressed it, hoping he would come to her as she died.

"Molly? Are.. are you alright?" A nurse came to check on her, calling to Sherlock as she entered.

"...Sherlock?...Just... wanted.. to... tell him..." Her voice sounded faint, so faint, to her ears. Foreign, almost.

"Molly? Wait. No... I'm coming to you. Please, just hold on. No... No, no, no!" Sherlock was there, in the doorway, tears welling in his eyes as he was kept at bay. The beeping of her heart monitor seemed to be getting fainter, the pauses between each beat coming slower with every passing second.

"...love you, 'erlock." She closed her eyes as the nurse called for the doctor, trying to make her stay.

She was thrust out of the way.

Feet pounded down the corridor, sounding distant, keeping time with her suddenly racing heart. She thought that it maybe knew it had little time left, so was trying to fit as many beats in as possible before it's time was up.

Large hands cradled her head, red-rimmed blue-green eyes meeting her brown ones.

She felt weightless, untied, as though all the earthly worries had simply been taken away.

The last thing she saw was Sherlock's face crumpling in grief as he brokenly sobbed her name. He filled her senses and she was free.

She knew no more.

She was no more.

The beeping finally stopped.

* * *

Congratulations for anyone who realised she was going to die! I am sorry, my twisted mind would not let her live. I tried four different endings!

Please don't hate me.


	14. A Haunting Melody (Epilogue)

The funeral was a small affair. Only family and close friends were invited.

Sherlock could hardly stand it.

None of them understood the depths of his anguish. They had lost a good friend, but he… he had lost his soul mate. It had taken him years to acknowledge her as a worthy companion; months to accept that she was more than his equal. A few short weeks to let her into the fortified cavern of his heart; and yet within moments, it seemed, she had… gone.

She had loved him.

He'd never gotten the chance to tell her… to tell her that he…

He loved her.

He watched her friends watch him, judgment lacing their eyes, accusation in the set of their lips. Not one of them realising that beneath the icy mask a veritable maelstrom of emotions surged throughout his body. They made him want to scream, shout, sob, curse and howl his pain to the skies.

It had taken him too long to realise her importance. Looking back, there were innumerable moments where she had been beautiful, kind and loving, and he had ignored and belittled her, time and again. Shame coursed through him, adding to the mixture of grief, anger, murderous rage and sorrow.

He loved her.

And like everything else he had allowed himself to love, she had died. She'd been put down, by a murderous psychopath hell bent on revenge for his boyfriend's suicide. Put down like his beloved Redbeard.

Lifting the violin that he held limply by his side, he started softly playing the melody he had composed all those months ago in his flat. The sweet, haunting sound filled the cemetery, perfectly capturing the essence of what Molly had meant to them.

Lost in the music, he didn't register the tears flowing down his face, breaking his carefully constructed defences. Before the entire congregation, Sherlock Holmes wept for the woman he loved, the music becoming more tragically beautiful as he lost control.

Finally, the last note rang out.

He collapsed to his knees, head in his hands.

His cries of despair echoed around the cemetery. Sharp, animalistic sobs ripped from his throat as the coffin containing his angel sank slowly into the ground.

"Ladies and gentlemen, would anyone like to say a few words?" The cleric's voice cut through the intimate show of grief.  
Sherlock raised his tear stained face.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry?"

"Yes, I would like to say something about Molly."

The gathered congregation, Molly's extended family, shifted uneasily.

"Are you su-"

"_Yes_" he hissed menacingly.

"Molly Hooper. S-she is - was - a wonderful woman. It took me ten years to recognise that. The past six months have been somewhat of a learning curve for me, and her. She... She gave me hope, when I was out pretending to be dead. The memory of her, it.. It would come to me when I was close to giving up. Usually in relation to a case I was remembering, it took me a while - too long - to realise that it was not the memory of solving the case, or of John, that had given me hope.

"It was Molly. Right from the beginning, at our first meeting, she saw me as something other than a 'freak', saw through my disguises, to the real me. As a result, she... Mattered." Swallowing thickly, he continued.

"I will admit, that scared me. I pushed her away, for so many years, when all..." He paused, wiping his eyes.

"When all I needed was.. Her." His voice caught, he blinked rapidly. His mind swam with images of her, happy, laughing, carefree. Her ill, vomiting blood as he held back her hair. Their stolen kisses. Their one night of being truly together. They all combined into a colourful collage in his mind.

"Molly was spectacular. Beautiful, inside and out. She saw me, actually saw me, like no other person has ever been able to. She trusted me to keep her safe, and I tried.

"But I failed. We all failed her. Not one of you noticed she was wasting away, right in front of your eyes. You all claim you loved her, yet you were ALL, each and every one of you, too caught up in your pathetically shallow lives to notice that she was fading."

Bitterness crept into his voice.

"I used to say that caring is not an advantage. This just proves it without a shadow of a doubt.

"You stand there, judging me, casting me in your minds as a cold heartless bastard, never showing a hint of emotion or remorse. You don't understand a thing.

"Not showing emotion doesn't mean I don't _feel _it. I... Cared for Molly. Deeply. I loved her. I love her and she isn't here to hear me say it. She will never know how much I appreciate her guidance and her help, never know that she has melted the icy exterior of my heart. The pain inside me... It's physical. /My heart aches./ I feel as though my insides are being ripped apart slowly, acid being poured on me as I bleed.

"If any of you feel a fraction of what I am feeling, then you'll understand why I maintain that caring is not an advantage. It just hurts too much."

Sherlock met the eyes of Molly's mother, the stark grief in her dark brown eyes _so like Molly's_ matching his own.

"I'm sorry for not saving your daughter. I'm sorry for ever entering her life. Molly, I love you. Rest in peace, my love..."

He lightly threw in a yellow rose, symbolic for everlasting love. She'd always loved yellow.

He turned away, slowly making his was to the gates of the cemetery. A light touch on his arm stopped him in his tracks.

"Thank you. She... She'd have appreciated that. She loved you, mister Holmes. You're welcome to come to ours any time you need, ju-just some support, or something.."

"I miss her. So much. It's been a week and every time I close my eyes she's there, lying dead in my arms.. Or she's smiling, or punching me for being insensitive. It wasn't supposed to end like this. So soon. We were meant to have the rest of our lives to annoy each other. Make memories. Maybe children."

"We'll get through this. We all will." She attempted a watery smile through her tears, turning to return to the congregation. "Are you sure you don't want..."

"I'd like to be alone. Thank you." Watching her retreating back grow smaller, he straightened his spine. Turning his back on the funeral party and the final resting place of his beloved, he hailed a taxi to his brother's.

Shutting his emotions away in a carefully constructed, well fortified and utterly breathtaking room in his mind palace, the old veneer or cold disdain slipped into place, effectively shuttering everything human about himself away.

He had learnt his lesson the hard way.

Sherlock was let into his brother's office, sympathy touching Anthea's face.

"Sherlock... My condolences. She meant something, didn't she."

He nodded curtly.

"Let me at Magnussen, Mycroft." he asked in a icy, low voice he hardly recognised as his own.

"So be it."


End file.
